


Polytonality

by Elise_Foster



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Depression, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elise_Foster/pseuds/Elise_Foster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>poly-to-nal-i-ty (noun): the simultaneous use of two or more musical keys</p><p>Andrew and his father - after the car crash, before the expulsion from school</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major trigger warnings (depression and attempted suicide)

Andrew’s hands are shaking. He can’t play with shaking hands. He has to focus far too much, and it’s when he loses himself, he knows, that he plays best.

His palms are sweaty, too. It feels like his hands are dripping. He wipes them on his pants.

When he looks down, he sees it’s not sweat on his hands but blood.

Right, he thinks. The fucking car accident.

He’s sitting on a metal folding chair. There’s a pounding on the left side of his head. His hair feels sticky. Connolly is standing beside him talking to the security guy who had helped haul Andrew from the stage. The conversation seems fairly heated, but he can’t hear their words. He can’t hear anything other than a rushing, like water, swirling around his head. Slowly, he realizes that the words that had been spoken around him were now being directed to him.

He looks up. Connolly has a hand balanced precariously on the wall above Andrew’s shoulder.

“Jesus, fuck, Andrew,” he says. “Jesus, fuck. Have you lost your fucking mind? You’re going to get expelled. You know that, right? Fucking Jesus.”

“You should go play,” Andrew says. “Go play my part.”

“Your—” Connolly shakes his head and walks back toward the stage. At the door, he turns back to Andrew and says, “You dumb fuck.”

The door slams shut behind him.

It’s a few minutes before Andrew hears Caravan start. He’s fucked if he’s going to sit there and listen to that stupid fucker Connolly play.

He pushes himself up from the chair. His knees buckle, and his hand scratches for purchase against the wall. When his legs no longer feel boneless, he walks away from the stage back down the hallway to the front of the building. He has to stop periodically; his vision and his feet lack surety. When he finally pushes open the outside door, the light seems intensely bright even though there are already long shadows sliding across the parking lot. He presses a hand against his eyes. Once he can stand the brightness, he starts walking.

After a block, he realizes that he’s heading back toward the crash. This is probably a good idea. He’s already going to be expelled. He should avoid getting arrested as well. Or getting arrested twice if Fletcher decides to press charges. This thought strikes him as funny. He giggles to himself.

He’s still laughing when a woman stops him with a hand on his arm. She looks back over her shoulder and asks, “Is this him?”

“Yes,” another voice answers. “That’s the kid. See, I told you. I told you he was okay. He just ran off.”

The police woman tightens her grip on his arm. “Where did you go?” she asks.

Andrew can’t stop laughing. He points in the opposite direction.

The woman studies him closely. He wonders what in his face has caught her attention. He tries to stop giggling and to still his shaking hands . He can’t do either. The woman places a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I think you need to let the paramedics check you out.”

“N-no. No,” he says. “I’m fine. I just need—” Need what? Thoughts are flying around inside his head, lighting on this or that before taking off again.

His chest is starting to ache. The pain in his head grows more intense.

The police officer shouts something. Gravity pulls Andrew from her grasp, and then he’s on the concrete, head bowed to his knees, gasping for air. The space around him contracts.

He thinks he might be dying.

He wishes he were.

 

* * *

 

Jim looks at the clock. It’s almost six. That last paper had taken almost forty minutes to grade. It’s time for a break.

He stands up, stretches his arms over his head, and heads downstairs to the kitchen to make a sandwich. His cell phone starts ringing when he’s half-way down the stairs. He stops, sighs, and trudges back up them. He doesn’t recognize the number but accepts the call.

“Hello?” he says.

“Hello.” A woman’s pleasant voice. “Is this Jim Neiman?”

“Yes, and if you’re selling something, can I request to be taken off your list?”

“What? Oh. No, sir. I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m calling from Saint Peter’s University Hospital. Your son was just brought in.”

Abruptly, everything stops. It’s just him and the phone in his hand and the woman on the other line. Nothing else exists. Nothing else has ever existed.

He reaches out blindly for the edge of the desk. “What—” He licks his lips, swallows. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He was in a car accident,” the woman continues.

“Oh, God.”

He needs to find his keys. He shuffles through the papers on the desk. Not there. He grabs his bag from the back of the chair. There are too many damn pockets. His search comes up empty.

He runs down the stairs.

“Don’t worry, sir. He’s going to be fine. They’ll be able to give you more specifics when you get here.”

The keys aren’t on the counter. They aren’t on the dining room table either. Why doesn’t he have a set place for his damn keys?

“Sir?”

“Yes, yes,” he says. “Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hangs up the phone and drops it on the table. He runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. His throat tightens, and his eyes start to burn.

His jacket. Right. Yes. His keys must be there.

He throws open the door to the coat closet and plunges his hand into the pocket of his jacket. His hand closes on the cold, metal edge of his car key. He yanks the jacket from its hanger. He takes two steps toward the front door before turning and running back upstairs to Andrew’s bedroom. He grabs a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that Andrew left the last time he was home and an old pair of sneakers sitting at the foot of the bed.

He slams out of the house.

It occurs to him once he’s ten minutes away that he didn’t lock the front door.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The hospital gown is covered in blue dots. None of them appear to be the same size. Andrew tries to measure them with his thumb. He keeps getting distracted by the sobbing coming from a woman in the bed next to his.

 

He reaches up to scratch his forehead, and pain lances through his midsection. He leans into the ache, finding pleasure in the constellations of pain igniting across his chest. He keeps scratching his head, fingers digging deep through the bandage. He scratches until he dislodges the bandage and his fingers touch something sticky and warm.

 

The dark-haired nurse who bandaged him up (Pearl, her nametag read) pushes back the curtain hanging near the end of his bed. “Andrew, they’ve called your father, and he should be here shortly,” she says.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

He wishes they hadn’t called his dad. He wishes he hadn’t even filled out that fucking medical card his father had given him. He wishes he could leave now, find a bus station, and head back into the city. Anything would be better than enduring the humiliation of being taken home by his father.

 

Pearl frowns at him. “Lord. Have you already popped your stitches?” She approaches Andrew and peels away the part of the bandage still attached to his face. “Yep. I’m going to have to stitch you up again.” She sighs. “I’ll be back in a minute. Try not to hurt yourself any more, okay?”

 

She leaves.

 

The sobbing from the next bed has stopped. The absence of the noise is unnerving.

 

After the accident, he couldn’t hear; the sounds of metal crunching on to concrete had muted everything.

 

On long car rides when he was younger, he and his father would play games of “would you rather.” Would you rather be super strong or super fast? Would you rather be in constant pain or have a constant itch? Would you rather be blind or deaf? Blind, he always answered. It was his only answer that never wavered. Living without sound would be impossible.

 

Crawling out of the rental car, ears ringing with the violence of the crash, he had thought he would be deprived of sound forever.

 

He looks to the left, toward the absent noise, and his vision goes fuzzy. He blinks. Everything clears for a moment then blurs again. The room starts to spin. Nausea rolls over him. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

 

The curtain draws back again.

 

“Andrew?” Pearl asks. “What’s going on, sweetie? Are you going to be sick?”

 

“Yes,” he croaks.

 

“Okay. Hold on.” She disappears and returns faster than should be possible.

 

Pearl the Superhero, he thinks. He imagines her with a bright red cape.

 

And then he throws up into the pink plastic container she had placed in his lap. His stomach constricts. He leans forward to retch again.

 

Pearl’s cool hand rests on the back of his neck. When he finally stops gagging and leans back, she says, “I know, sweetie. It sucks.”

 

She takes the container from him and places it on a tray at the end of the bed. “Let me know if you feel sick again,” she says.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

He keeps his eyes shut and focuses on breathing out his nose while she stitches his head up again. She places a fresh bandage on top of the stitches. “Try not to pull these out, okay?”

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

She pushes hair away from his forehead and smiles at him.

 

When he was young, he used to imagine what it would be like if a particular woman were his mother. Teachers, neighbors, music instructors, he’d created an entire cadre of mothers. He had outgrown this game ages ago, and yet—

 

He lowers his gaze, embarrassed to be blinking back tears.

 

“Oh, sweetie.” Her hand gently strokes his hair. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

 

He can’t find the words to tell her how wrong she is.

 

“Your dad will be here soon,” she says. “And I’ll come back to check on you in a little while.”

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

She leaves, and the woman in the next bed is sobbing again. He can hear her perfectly.

 

Andrew closes his eyes.

 

His dad will be here soon. His dad who will ask all sorts of questions that Andrew can’t answer. His dad who will be pleased, so fucking pleased to know that Andrew is done at Shaffer. Now, Andrew can grow up, get some perspective, go do something practical. Get a fucking teaching degree and watch his life melt away year by year.

 

He’d rather kill himself. He really would.

 

The room starts to waver again. Nausea follows. He grabs for the bin, and holding it close under his mouth, he vomits again.

 

* * *

 

Jim glances down at the speedometer. He’s pushing 90 as he blows past a sign that tells him he’s within the Dunellen city limits.

 

He can’t control the images that keep running on a loop through his head. He should have pushed the nurse further. Fine can mean any number of things. Fine can still mean broken.

 

He’s never been all that great in a crisis. He always manages to hold it together in front of his son, but now he’s dangerously close to breaking down. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and his phone tells him to make a left turn in a mile and a half.

 

He begrudgingly slows down to get within fifteen miles of the speed limit.

 

It is not quite a relief to see the sign for the hospital. He’s not sure the knowing will be all that much better than not knowing.

 

He parks the car and gathers the pile of clothing he threw in the passenger seat, clutching it to his chest. He has to stop himself from running into the ER.

 

He waits behind three other people at the intake desk, and by the time it’s his turn, he can’t think clearly anymore.

 

“I got a call,” he says. “My son’s here. He was in a car accident.”

 

The young man behind the desk raises his eyebrow at Jim. “His name?”

 

Jim’s hands curl around the edge of the counter. “Andrew. Andrew Neiman.”

 

The young man checks a chart, glances at his computer screen and then says, “Hold on just a minute.” He pushes away from the desk and motions to a girl in scrubs. “Bed three,” he says to her. “His father’s here.”

 

She nods and offers Jim a small smile. “If you’ll just follow me, sir.”

 

They walk down a short hallway that ends in a room filled with beds separated from one another with blue curtains. The room is crammed with movement and noise.

 

The girl motions to one of the curtains and inclines her head. “Your son’s in there. The nurse will be by shortly to speak with you.”

 

Jim walks past her and enters the partitioned space.

 

Andrew is asleep. There is a bandage on his forehead. The left side of his face is starting to show bruising. One of the fingers is in a splint. This is better than Jim expected.

 

It is also far worse.

 

Andrew is so pale that Jim has to watch him breathing to convince himself his boy is still alive.

 

He sets the clothing down on the end of the bed and approaches his son. He reaches a hand out to touch Andrew’s face, brushing his fingers across the bandage and through his hair. He cups his hand over Andrew’s ear, thumb stroking his cheek.

 

Andrew stirs. His eyes crack open. “Dad?”

 

Jim rubs tears from his face with his sleeve. “Hey, son. How are you feeling?”

 

“Okay,” Andrew says. He pushes himself up in the bed. “Are we going home?”

 

“As soon as I get the okay.” He doesn’t want to ask. He can’t help himself. “Andrew, what happened?”

 

“A truck hit the car,” he says.

 

“Why were you in a car? I thought you took the bus.”

 

“The bus broke down. I had to rent a car to get to the competition,” he says.

 

Before Jim can ask his son anything else, a female nurse enters the space. She smiles at him but speaks to Andrew first.

 

“Good. You’re awake.” She turns to Jim. “You must be his father. I’ve been taking care of your son. If you’ll come with me, I can answer any questions you might have.” She moves the clothing at the end of the bed within Andrew’s reach. “Meanwhile, Andrew, you can get dressed.”

 

Jim follows her back out into the hallway.

 

“What’s—” Jim starts. “How is—”

 

“He’s broken a finger and bruised a couple ribs,” she says. “Of more immediate concern is the concussion. You’re going to want to keep an eye on that. Before you leave, we’ll give you specific instructions, what to look for, when to call a doctor, things like that. We’ve also given Andrew a prescription for some pain medication, and he’ll need to make an appointment to have some stitches removed in about a week or so.”

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

“Also, you should be aware that he had a panic attack prior to his arrival here,” she says. “Does your son have a history with anxiety disorders?”

 

“What?” Jim shakes his head. “No. No. Why would he have a panic attack?”

 

“Probably just a reaction to the shock of the accident,” she says. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but the doctor just wanted me to double check with you about Andrew’s history. He wasn’t all that forthcoming when we asked him.” She smiles. “Okay. Well, I’m going to walk you back up front, and they’ll have you fill out more forms than you can count.”

 

“Okay.” Jim glances back toward his son’s bed.

 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll bring him out to you as soon as he’s ready. You two will be out of here in no time.”

 

This final statement becomes increasingly hard to believe with every form Jim signs.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Andrew leans his head against the wall.

 

Pearl is giving instructions to his dad. There is something appealing in the realization that no one believes he is responsible enough to take care of anything without fucking it up.

 

“Take care of yourself, Andrew,” Pearl says. “And listen to your dad.”

 

It is a place ripe for a joke (something like “that would be the first time” or “like he always does, right?”), and his dad is always one for telling jokes at the wrong fucking time.

 

His dad doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he says thank you to Pearl, fills his hands with Andrew’s backpack, pages of paperwork, and bottles of medication. After shoving the smaller items into the backpack, he places his arm around Andrew’s back and guides him outside.

 

Andrew’s not overly fond of being touched—especially not now—but he’s too fucking tired to move away. Still, he can feel all the questions his dad wants to ask in the rigidity of the arm against his shoulders. It is a mercy that he stays silent as long as he does.

 

“You rented a car?” he finally asks.

 

Andrew takes a large step forward, separating himself from his father’s hand.

 

“What?” his dad asks. “Andrew?”

 

He makes sure he gets into the car before his father can open the door for him and tuck him into the seat like he’s fucking five. He reclines the seat back and turns his head to face the window.

 

The other door opens, and his dad settles beside him with a sigh. His hand touches Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew shrugs him off.

 

“I’m tired,” Andrew mutters into the fabric of the sweatshirt.

 

“Okay,” his dad says. “Just. Just get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get home.”

 

His voice fucking drips concern. Andrew wants to lean across the console and throttle him. Fuck you, dad. Fuck you and your fucking pity.

 

He feels like crying. His face flushes hot, and he swallows, bringing up a hand to press against his eyelids hard enough to produce stars. The pain helps.

 

Then, his dad flicks on the radio. Andrew has always slept better with noise; this kindness is almost too much to suffer.

 

Andrew wills himself to sleep.

 

It must work. He wakes to his dad’s hand shaking his knee and telling him they’re home.

 

* * *

 

Andrew reaches the front door before Jim.

 

“It’s unlocked,” Jim calls to him.

 

“You didn’t lock the door?” Andrew sounds surprised.

 

“No,” Jim says. “I didn’t.”

 

He tries to imbue this gesture with meaning. It must not translate.

 

“Okay,” Andrew says before pushing the door open and trudging inside.

 

By the time Jim gets in the house and has dropped everything down on the kitchen table, Andrew is already slouched down on the couch. Jim hovers just inside the living room.

 

“Andrew?” Andrew presses his face into the back cushion of the couch. “You want to stay there?” No response. “Okay.”

 

He has flashes of memory, seeing Andrew lying on this couch at six, at ten, at thirteen. The memory is immobilizing. He covers his eyes with his hand, pressing his thumb and middle finger against his temples. The pressure helps him focus, makes him feel like his muscles aren’t trying to jump out of his skin and his bones aren’t going to crumple like paper.

 

He goes upstairs to get a blanket and a pillow. These he places on the couch beside Andrew. The kitchen is next. He gets a glass of water, picks up the medication from the dining room table, and returns to the living room.

 

Andrew hasn’t moved.

 

Jim places the pillow at one end of the couch, punches it in the middle with excessive force.

 

“Andrew?” he says.

 

“What?”

 

“The medication. You need to take it.”

 

Andrew sits up and takes the offered glass of water and pills. He hands the glass back to Jim who places it on the table under the TV and reminds himself to refill it.

 

“You should lay down,” Jim says.

 

Andrew toes off his shoes and stretches out on the couch. Jim shakes out the blanket and covers Andrew. He resists the urge to tuck the blanket around his son’s shoulders.

 

“I’m going to have to wake you a couple times,” Jim says. “Because, you know, of the concussion.”

 

Andrew gives him a hum of acknowledgement before shutting his eyes.

 

Jim retreats to the dining room where he sits and waits until he’s sure Andrew is asleep. Then, he returns to the living room. He switches on a lamp by one of the armchairs and sits down. On the floor beside the chair sits a book he abandoned. He picks it up and opens it so that he can stare at the words until it’s time to wake Andrew up.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Andrew spends most of Sunday asleep.

 

Every so often, his dad wakes him. He takes the medication that is offered and sleeps again.

 

Other than the ebbing and receding pain in his head and ribs, it’s not a bad day. He gets to opt out of his own life.

 

When he dives into dreamless sleep, it is beautiful. In the darkness, under the haze of the drugs, he can’t feel a fucking thing.

 

* * *

 

Jim calls the insurance company first. He has to explain the situation twice. Even then, he doesn’t get the most useful answer.

 

“Well,” the woman on the phone tells him, “it should be covered given your policy, but we’ll have to see the police report and talk to the rental car company before we can give you a definitive answer. Oh, and you’ll need to call your insurance agent as soon as possible so we can make sure the claim gets filed in a timely manner. They’ll also be able to give you a sense of any rate hike that might be applied.”

 

Jim thanks her—though he’s not sure why he’s thanking someone who made him feel like he got screwed with his pants on.

 

The rental car company is next. He gets a bunch of bullshit about “not taking the rental insurance” and “having a small fleet of cars” and “losing significant income.”

 

Jim ends up assuring this guy that he’s already talked to the insurance company and the car will be replaced. Before he hangs up, he apologizes. As soon as he hears the click on the other line, he says, “Dick.”

 

His third call is to the Dunellen police department. He learns that the accident was Andrew’s fault (running a stop sign) but that the other driver wasn’t injured (nor was his truck). Of more concern is the fact that Andrew abandoned the scene of the accident only to return fifteen minutes later.

 

No, he tells the woman, he doesn’t know where his son might have gone.

 

This, of course, is a lie.

 

He gives them his address so they can send him a copy of the police report and ends the call. He makes coffee and reminds himself that he needs to let Andrew sleep. But, damn, how deep did Andrew let that bastard burrow into his head that he would still try to make it to a competition after totaling a car?

 

He still has fifteen papers left to grade. After spending an hour and a half reading one, he decides he’s better off just tossing them down the stairs and assigning grades based on where they land.

 

He makes soup for dinner and then wakes Andrew. He has to focus so that the question out of his mouth is “You hungry?” and not “You totaled a car and still went to the competition—are you crazy?”

 

Andrew says he’s not hungry. Jim hands him a bowl of soup anyway. Andrew sits and stares at it, rotating the handle of the spoon around the bowl.

 

“I got everything squared away with the rental car company,” Jim says.

 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

 

“I had to call the police department too.”

 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

 

Jim listens to the grating sound of the spoon sliding across the ceramic edge of the bowl.

 

“They said you left the crash site. For a while,” Jim says.

 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

 

“They weren’t sure where you went.”

 

Andrew shrugs.

 

That damn noise driving him crazy. “Andrew. Can you stop it with the spoon?”

 

Andrew drops the spoon. It slides halfway into the bowl. He places the bowl on the floor. He straightens back up, and his hands, absent anything else to do, close around imaginary sticks and twitch, drumming out imaginary rhythms in the air.

 

“Where did you go?” Jim asks.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Andrew says.

 

Jim exhales. “Yeah, Andrew, it does.”

 

“Why?” The rhythms Andrew is playing have gotten faster.

 

“Why does it matter?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jim tries to keep his voice level. “God, Andrew. You still tried to make the competition. You had totaled a car. You almost killed yourself, and you still tried to play at some stupid—”

 

Andrew’s hands stop moving. He mutters something.

 

“What?” Jim asks. “I couldn’t—”

 

“It’s not stupid,” Andrew says.

 

Jim walks back this comment. “Okay. But in the context, it was stupid. You broke a finger. You have a concussion.”

 

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Andrew says.

 

“And if you had known, you would have done what exactly?”

 

“I don’t know.” Andrew shakes his head, wipes his hands against his thighs. “I didn’t get to play anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”

 

Jim closes his eyes and forces himself to be calm.

 

Andrew stands up.

 

“Where are you going?” Jim asks. “We’re not done.”

 

“Bathroom,” Andrew says. “And I have a headache.”

 

Jim watches Andrew shuffle slowly away, body slumped forward, eyes on the floor. For the life of him, he can’t tell if he should read this as pain or defeat.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It is Monday, mid-afternoon. Andrew should have been sitting in Jazz Music History. He wonders if everyone knows why he’s not there. Or if they even notice that he’s not there.

 

He’s holed himself up in his room since his dad is less likely to ambush him with questions up here.

 

The room bears no marks of him. It has been stripped down and emptied, like its former occupant died. Andrew has never liked accumulating stuff. Too many things in a space, and he feels like the walls are going to collapse in. It had been pleasurable to throw things away when he went to college.

 

He thinks about all the things he’ll have to throw away now: music, and charts, and CDs, and that fucked CD player that never worked quite right, those fucking posters that were supposed to be fucking inspirational.

 

What happens, he wonders, if he doesn’t come back? Does someone else go through his stuff? Would they laugh at his delusional desire to be the next Buddy Rich? Would they know that he didn’t have any friends? That he managed to fuck everything up with the one girlfriend he was ever likely to get?

 

Would they think that he was crazy for giving up everything because there’s drumming—drumming the way Fletcher demanded—and then there’s the rest of life with all the boring people who don’t know what it is to have that one perfect, brightly burning moment where all the noise in his head goes quiet and it’s just him and the drum kit and the rhythm?

 

A dull queasiness grows in his stomach. He can feel bile rising in his throat. It burns like a sadness that cannot be named and will never dissipate.

 

Andrew has been afraid of a lot of things, but he has never been afraid of his future. It was always laid out before him, one shiny white stone after another.

 

Now, his future is a black hole, the gravity of the thought “you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed” emptying him from top to bottom before tearing him into pieces.

 

And somewhere in all that destruction, there is a voice that sounds disturbingly like his own whispering to him: “maybe you were never meant to succeed, maybe they made a mistake when they let you into Shaffer, maybe you have always been and will always be a disappointment, a disaster.”

 

This voice will not be denied or ignored. Andrew listens to it and follows where it leads him.

 

* * *

 

Jim stays home on Monday. He might has well have gone to work. Andrew does not appear to need him.

 

Warning bells are starting to ring faintly in his head. He doesn’t know how to silence them. He can’t force Andrew to speak to him. He hasn’t ever been able to force Andrew to do anything he didn’t want to do. When Andrew was seven, Jim signed him up for Little League one summer (his brother’s recommendation). Andrew went to two practices and then decided he hated it. For the next week, he hid right before they had to leave for the field. Jim still doesn’t know where he kept himself.

 

The house phone rings at four forty. He glances at it and hears Andrew’s voice in his head—“you’re the last person to even have a land line”—before answering the call.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello. This is Julie Crane with the Department of Student Affairs at Shaffer. I’m trying to reach Andrew Neiman.”

 

“He’s unavailable right now,” Jim says. “I’m his father. Can I help you?”

 

“I really need to speak to Andrew. We need to schedule a time for him to come in to speak to us about the disciplinary problem that occurred this past Saturday. The sooner we can get this matter resolved the better.”

 

“What disciplinary problem?” Jim asks. “The fact that he didn’t show up to a competition?” (He knows this isn’t the issue. He knows, but he wants so badly for it to be something this ridiculous.) “He was in a car accident. He went to the hospital.”

 

“Oh. We didn’t know that. Hold on a moment. Let me add that to the file.”

 

He listens to her type.

 

“Okay” she says. “Given his injuries, do you know when he might be able to come to a hearing? This week would be preferable. As I mentioned before, we would like to resolve this issue as soon as we can. Would Friday morning be possible?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jim says. “I’ll have to talk to his doctor.”

 

“Okay. Once you’ve done that, can either you or Andrew call me and let me know if Friday at 10 will work for the hearing? That will give us plenty of time to finish collecting all the data we need.”

 

“And give Andrew time to prepare,” Jim says.

 

“What? Oh. Yes,” she says. “But, Mr. Neiman, given the severity of your son’s actions, you should prepare him for the likelihood that he will not be allowed to remain enrolled at Shaffer. Barring any extraordinary circumstances, of course.”

 

And here is just one more in a long line of things that don’t make sense. “What? He’s being thrown out?”

 

“His future at Shaffer is yet to be determined. I just think you should prepare him for the worst,” she says. “Please don’t forget to call us as soon as you know whether or not the Friday hearing will work. I’m going to go on and schedule it.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Jim says.

 

After he’s hung up, he realizes that he forgot to ask what it was Andrew did. He wishes he had. He needs the safety of knowledge. He needs to know more than Andrew thinks he does.

 

He waits far too long before calling the woman back. No one picks up the phone.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Andrew’s dad went back to work on Tuesday. He left with the ominous warning that they would have Things To Discuss when he got home.

 

“Okay,” Andrew had said.

 

His dad had sighed and left.

 

Andrew has no intention of discussing anything with his dad. This is something he doesn’t need to know.

 

He ends up sleeping most of the day. When he wakes up half past three, he decides to take a bath. His dad won’t be home until four.

 

He puts in the stopper and turns on the tap, running the water overly hot. He shuts and locks the door. The lock doesn’t actually work. If you twist it too far to the left, it pops open, but this is inconsequential.

 

He peels off the sweatshirt. His ribs are still wrapped up. He sheds the bandages, rolls them up, and places them neatly on the counter. The bruising on his left side is a curious shade of bluish black. It forms an interesting contrast with the purplish bruising on his face. He peels off the white bandage from his forehead and places it carefully in the trash. He knows he shouldn’t get the stitches wet. He probably also shouldn’t soak his broken finger—at least not with all the wrappings on. He unwraps his finger. It is still pretty swollen. It hurts like hell when he tries to bend it.

 

The tub is almost overflowing by the time he has stripped off his pants and underwear. He turns off the tap. The dripping of the faucet echoes, absurdly loud. He waits for it to stop before climbing in the tub.

 

The water is so hot it’s painful to step into. He leans back against the wall of the tub and closes his eyes. He considers the stitches again. In the long run, he supposes, it won’t really matter if they get wet.

 

He waits for the water to cool slightly before taking a breath and sinking down below the surface. He exhales slowly through his nose and watches the bubbles rise. His lungs begin to burn.

 

The pressure in his chest becomes agonizing. It is so fucking painful.

 

He should have taken the pills first.

 

* * *

 

Jim calls the family doctor on the way home from school.

 

As it turns out, Andrew can make the hearing in Friday. Apparently, as long as he’s feeling okay, there’s no reason he can’t resume normal activities. (As if a disciplinary hearing is a normal activity.)

 

All day Jim has rehearsed the conversation he plans to have with Andrew. He has finally found what he believes to be the right words to say. No blame, no judgment, just a calm, rational discussion.

 

He mouths his opening salvo to himself as he walks into the house and climbs up the stairs. He starts toward Andrew’s bedroom but then notices the closed bathroom door.

 

“Andrew?” he calls.

 

No response.

 

He knocks on the door. “Andrew? Are you in there?”

 

Still nothing.

 

He reaches for the doorknob and finds it locked. “Andrew, are you okay?”

 

No sound, no hint of movement behind the door. Jim glances in the direction of Andrew’s room. It is empty.

 

The hot sickness of panic builds in Jim’s stomach. “Andrew? I’m coming in. Sorry, but I’m coming in.” He yanks the doorknob hard to the left, and the lock pops.

 

There are lots of things to notice in the bathroom: bandages rolled up on the counter, clothing folded neatly and placed on top of the toilet, a small pool of water on the floor by the tub, Andrew’s dark hair bobbing just under the surface of the water in the bathtub.

 

Later, Jim will feel pain in his knees and remember banging them down hard beside the tub. He will change out of a soaking wet shirt and remember pulling Andrew’s torso above the water. He will have a scratch on his face and remember Andrew thrashing wildly after surfacing. He will remember placing his hands on Andrew’s head and neck and listening to his painful, hacking coughs. He will remember the silence afterwards, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing.

 

He will not remember draining the tub. He will not remember how he got back downstairs or why he ended up sitting at the dining room table.

 

He will remember cradling his face in his hands and weeping.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Andrew comes downstairs. His throat still hurts, and he’s sure if he tried to talk, his voice would be hoarse. He hears his dad crying in the dining room. He slides silently into a chair across from him and politely waits for him to finish. His dad finally registers Andrew’s presence in the room. He wipes at his face with his already soaked shirt.

 

Andrew presents him with his broken finger and the bandages.

 

“I couldn’t wrap it back up myself,” he rasps. He swallows.

 

His dad nods and carefully, gently, binds Andrew’s finger and slides the splint back on. There is a twinge of pain. Andrew winces.

 

“Sorry,” his dad says.

 

Andrew shakes his head.

 

His dad covers Andrew’s hand with his own. Andrew doesn’t really want to be touched, but he leaves his hand where it is.

 

* * *

 

Jim curls his hand around Andrew’s wrist, needing to feel the beating pulse underneath his fingers. He cannot look at his son.

 

“Andrew,” he says. “Andrew.”

 

He cannot ask the question, he cannot do it, so he says, “Are your ribs okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Andrew says.

 

“Okay,” Jim says.

 

The pulse is still there, throbbing, strong through the thin skin of Andrew’s wrist.

 

“Andrew,” he starts again. “What were you… Why did you—”

 

“I don’t know,” Andrew says.

 

* * *

 

Andrew knows his father doesn’t believe his answer. Andrew doesn’t really blame him. It’s not true. He does know. What he doesn’t know is how to explain it to someone like his father.

 

“How can you… How can you not know? Good fucking God, Andrew. You were trying to...”

 

Andrew watches his father struggle to complete this sentence. “Kill myself,” Andrew says.

 

His dad runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.”

 

Andrew can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard his dad use this word. Well, he used to be able to anyway.

 

He recognizes his dad’s pain but feels separate from it. He has retreated to a small, quiet place inside his head where nothing can touch him, where nothing can hurt him. He doesn’t like seeing his dad upset, but he knows it’s also not something he can fix.

 

He waits for his dad to be calm.

 

* * *

 

Andrew is ridiculously, ludicrously calm. This is not right. It’s not right. He’s even making fucking eye contact for God’s sake.

 

“There must be a reason,” Jim says. “You don’t just wake up one day and make this kind of decision.”

 

Andrew shrugs.

 

“You don’t,” Jim insists.

 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

 

“Andrew, I am trying to understand here,” Jim says. “I’m trying to do that without completely losing my mind.”

 

Andrew nods.

 

“Fucking God!” Jim slams his hands down on the table hard enough that his palms sting. He needs to do something, so he stands up and walks to the window. He recalls conversations he and Andrew had a week, two weeks, a month ago. Has he always been depressed? Jim doesn’t think so, but what he thinks counts for shit now.

 

He thinks about potential causes, runs through everything in his head (his own limitations as a father, his inability to make Andrew’s mother—it hurt less to think of her like this—stay with them, his frequent failures to understand Andrew). There are so many things, so many that he has done wrong. But Andrew knows he is loved. He must at least know that.

 

But maybe he doesn’t. Over the past few months, Andrew has become a person that Jim doesn’t even know.

 

And suddenly, Jim knows the question that he has to ask. He turns back to Andrew.

 

* * *

 

“What did he do to you?” his dad asks.

 

Andrew doesn’t even think about his answer. “He didn’t do anything.”

 

His dad shakes his head and says, vehemently, “No. No I don’t believe that. No. He must have done something. I know he must have done something. You’re not even the same person anymore. He changed you.”

 

“Yes,” Andrew says. “He made me better.”

 

Andrew didn’t know that his father’s eyes could bug out of his head that far. “Better? How exactly has he made you better?”

 

Andrew thinks. Fletcher broke him down and rebuilt him. It isn’t Fletcher’s fault that Andrew is fundamentally flawed.

 

“I can’t explain,” he tells his dad.

 

“Of course you can’t.” His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, can you at least tell me what happened on Saturday? Why you’re going to have to go to a disciplinary hearing this Friday?”

 

Cold sweeps over Andrew’s body. “I don’t want to go to a hearing.”

 

“Well, they’re going to expel you if you don’t go.”

 

They are going to expel him regardless. They know that he has already had his moment of accidental, fleeting greatness all because he lost a fucking folder and memorized a fucking song.

 

“Okay,” Andrew says.

 

* * *

 

“Okay?” Jim asks. “Okay what? Okay you’ll go?”

 

Of course, he’s going to go. Andrew dreamed about Shaffer from the time he knew what it was. It was the only thing he ever wanted. He practiced so much before his audition he stopped sleeping. Of course, he will not allow himself to be expelled. Of course he won’t.

 

“Okay, they can expel me,” Andrew says.

 

Jim closes his eyes. His throat feels clogged. This is worse. This is so much worse than he thought.

 

He collapses into the chair beside Andrew, leans his forehead against his palms, and slumps forward against the table. “Please, Andrew. Please give me something. I want to help you, but I don’t...” He stops, finds words. “I don’t know what to do here. I don’t know what to do. Give me something. Please.”

 

The room is silent for a long time.

 

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Andrew says. “I attacked him.”

 

Jim raises his head. “You did what?”

 

“I made it to the competition. Got on stage. Started playing,” Andrew says. “But my hand and the headache and I couldn’t breathe very well. I only got a few bars in before I had to stop.”

 

Andrew fingers have started to twitch. “Andrew, it’s okay,” Jim says. “It’s okay.”

 

“Then he came over, and he told me I was done. I was out of studio band. Forever.” Andrew’s hands are rattling against the table. “That’s when I attacked him.”

 

Jim exhales. “Okay,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Andrew wants to go back to that quiet space in his head, but he can’t find it. There are too many obstacles in the way, and every time he clears one, another pops up.

 

“I’m sure if you explained what happened at the hearing,” his dad says. “How he treated you.”

 

“Dad,” Andrew says. His voice sounds dangerously unsteady.

 

His dad reaches out and stills Andrew’s hands.

 

“Andrew,” he says. “That man’s opinion. It’s really worth killing yourself over?”

 

How can he explain that his death would be the secondary one? Something else—something golden and rare and beautiful, the only thing in him that had any value—had already died. He had held it in his hands, watched it sing and then strangled it.

 

He says, “Yes. Yes. Yes, it is.” He wants to sound resolute so his father can understand, but he’s crying (and when had that started?). His dad has moved closer, and he pulls Andrew to him. Andrew lowers his head to his dad’s shoulder.

 

Andrew sobs, knowing he possesses nothing now but the awful gnawing empty loneliness of failure.

 

“I love you,” his dad says. “I love you. I love you.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

His dad drives him into the city on Friday for the hearing. They have to leave early, and Andrew ends up falling asleep in the car.

 

When his dad wakes him, they are four blocks from the school, and Andrew has a cramp in his upper back.

 

His dad doesn’t say anything until the car is idling outside Gehring Hall. He clears his throat.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” Andrew says.

 

His dad’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Andrew, look at me.”

 

He does.

 

“Just tell them the truth,” his dad says. “It will be okay. And whatever happens, I still love you. Okay? None of this matters to me.”

 

Andrew nods.

 

His dad squeezes his shoulder then lets him go. Andrew climbs out of the car.

 

“Call me when it’s over,” his dad calls after him.

 

Andrew slams the car door shut.

 

He waits until his dad drives away before walking toward the building. He imagines ice spindling up his limbs, freezing feet and ankles, hands and elbows. He feels the ice creep up his neck and into his head. It fans out through his brain, slowing everything down, muting all the sounds, dimming all the sights. In quiet, in the cold, he creates a retreat for himself.

 

Everything still fucking hurts.

 

He opens the door to the building and walks inside.

 

* * *

 

There is considerable foot traffic outside the coffee shop where Jim is waiting. He’s not sure if this is normal for ten in the morning on a random Friday in New York City in the middle of spring.

 

He checks his phone again. It has only been twenty minutes. The woman from student affairs hadn’t given him any indication how long the hearing would last. “It differs depending on the case,” she said. “And depending on any complications or inconsistencies uncovered in the accounts provided.”

 

He is already preparing for bad news. Andrew isn’t going to tell them anything about Fletcher.

 

It’s a good thing Andrew didn’t want him at the hearing. He wants to wring that bastard’s neck.

 

Before he can go too far down that line of thought, he turns back to his laptop. He needs to fix what Fletcher broke in his son. He’s not sure how to do this, so there are two tabs open in Chrome: admission guidelines for Columbia and a compiled list of therapists that are in his network.

 

His phone chirps. There is a message from Andrew. It reads: “It’s over.”

 

“How did it go?” Jim sends back.

 

His phone chirps again. “Don’t know.”

 

Jim reminds himself to print off the information about Columbia admissions when they get home.

 

As he walks back to his car, he considers what he might say to Andrew. There is something buzzing around his head about moving forward and having options. There is also something about perspective and practicality.

 

He cannot say any of these things. He also cannot say that he is glad, so glad that the poison of Shaffer will no longer be running through Andrew’s veins.

 

He decides he will tell his son that it will get better.

 

He has no idea if this is true.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic after a four year hiatus. Writing this story was like coming home, so I hope that it's better than I think it is.
> 
> I took some liberties with how the school would have handled the suspension (though I did check out the Manhattan School of Music Student Handbook - the amount of research that went into this story reached ridiculous levels by the end). I also am not a medical professional and have never been to an ER, so I took some liberties there as well.
> 
> I started this story thinking I could write it in two days. It ended up taking two weeks. Apparently, I can't do time management.


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